


the reality of a nightmare

by bstarship



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Dreams vs. Reality, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Hurt Tony Stark, Near Death Experiences, Peter Parker Has Nightmares, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is Trying His Best, Peter Parker is a Mess, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark is Good With Kids, let peter parker rest, the poor kid deserves it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:20:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23180833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bstarship/pseuds/bstarship
Summary: “This is gonna sound gratuitous coming from me, but have you considered sleep? It’s this newfangled thing everyone’s ravin’ about. They’re awake all day and then go to bed at night. You should try it. Works wonders.”Peter sniffed and nodded. He didn’t even feel tired, but sleeping was so much easier than staying awake. “Not for me,” he said. “Don’t like it anyway. The dreams are never good. There’s better stuff I could be doing.”“Now that’s a red flag."orPeter has a bad dream about Tony. And then it starts to come true. Kind of.
Relationships: Friday & Peter Parker, Karen (Spider-Man: Homecoming) & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 9
Kudos: 168
Collections: ellie marvel fics - read





	the reality of a nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> please note:
> 
> the working title was "nightmare on pete street" lol

“Hey. Kid. _Yoo-hoo_. Earth to Web-Head. Web-Slingin’ Slasher. You awake?”

Peter had fallen asleep in Tony’s workshop again. By this point, the kid had lost count exactly how many times he’d done so. He was up to his waist in midterms and projects, and May had taken extra shifts at work, so when he wasn’t out Spider-Man-ing, he was covering the list of chores she left for him in the meantime. He even fixed up a few dinners for her so she had something in the fridge when she got home at an ungodly hour. Peter’s brain was running eight miles a minute, and he wasn’t sleeping.

He stirred, humming and rubbing at his eyes as he straightened his posture. “Mhm. Yeah. Totally.” As Peter adjusted his vision, his eyes fell to the slick surface of the workbench below where a small puddle of drool sat. _Yuck_. Gross. He wiped at his chin.

Tony stood behind his desk with a few dozen holograms surrounding him. He raised an eyebrow at Peter. “This is gonna sound gratuitous coming from me, but have you considered sleep? It’s this newfangled thing everyone’s ravin’ about. They’re awake all day and then go to bed at night. You should try it. Works wonders.”

Peter sniffed and nodded. He didn’t even feel tired, but sleeping was so much easier than staying awake. “Not for me,” he said. “Don’t like it anyway. The dreams are never good. There’s better stuff I could be doing.”

“Now _that’s_ a red flag,” Tony muttered, and the holograms disappeared before him. He slowly meandered over toward Peter. “You good, then? School going okay? Grades fine? You can tell me if there’s something bothering you, Pete. Pretty sure we’ve established that the walls-down-protocol has been in effect since last November.”

“Yeah, no, I’m fine,” Peter said, and truly, he meant it. He felt fine, his grades were fine… all he wanted was for life to slow down a little. “Just got no time to breathe, s’all. Ready for summer.”

Tony nodded. “Sure. Yeah, actually, that reminds me––start thinkin’ about places to go for your sixteenth birthday. Any place. And don’t say Disney World.”

“Mister Stark, it’s just that I haven’t been there before, and––”

“A nightmare is what it is. It’s my worst nightmare,” Tony said. “Crowds and crying babies and _water_ _rides_.” He shivered. “I couldn’t imagine any place else closer to Hell. Speaking of things that are hell, I dry-cleaned your suit. And repaired it. How many times _have_ you gotten stabbed exactly?”

Peter chuckled dryly. He didn’t have the energy to work on _whatever_ _the hell_ he _had_ been working on. If he squinted, it looked like some ugly prototype for a new web-shooter. “Just a few times. Maybe six. Dunno. Thanks though. It was getting smelly.”

“Yeah, welcome to the wonderful world of sweat and smelling bad,” said Tony as he returned back to his spot behind the desk. “You’re gonna love it. I’ll buy you a twelve-pack of deodorant next time I’m out.”

“I use deodorant, Mister Stark.”

“Extra strength. Clinical. Ten dollar entrance fee from now on if you don’t come in smelling like fresh daisies.”

Peter rolled his eyes and smiled. “Sure,” he mumbled, setting his head down onto his arms before shutting his eyes, “start paying me then.”

“Okay, now you've crossed a line.”

Peter laughed, and for a few moments, he felt calm and at ease. He let the machines and Tony’s occasional swears lull him into a light sleep. After that, Peter soon became conscious of his sub-conscience. He was dreaming.

And it was a good dream for a while.

It was sharp and clear. Tony was there doing what Tony did best. He worked on his suits and hummed along to the music blasting through the speakers, and Peter was there tinkering away at his own suit. It resembled a comfortable pattern that they had fallen into over the past few months. It was nice.

When dream-Peter looked at Tony, however, the older man wasn’t as at peace. His expression twisted as he read over a message on his computer screens. From a distance, Peter couldn’t read it, but he knew the message wasn’t good. There was a subtle shift in the atmosphere, and Tony was uncomfortable.

“What’s that?” dream-Peter asked.

Almost as if he had clicked a switch, Tony’s face broke out into a smile. “Nothing,” he answered. “Just junk. Happy’s gotten on the chain mail trend. Dancing cats and ‘you-will-die-in-ten-days’ kind of stuff.”

Peter nodded, accepting the straightforward answer. But somewhere, the truth floated in his mind, weaving in between prefrontal decisions and hippocampus memories. Something was wrong, but in his dreams, he wasn’t aware enough to take notice.

The workshop faded into the kitchen, and now, Tony was in the midst of preparing some pasta dish that Peter couldn’t identify. Meanwhile, he sat at the counter with a few sheets of illegible homework problems below. They didn’t share moments like this often––usually, Peter was too busy with school and evenings on patrol, and Tony spent more days out of town than in. It was special when he invited the kid over for a nice home-cooked dinner. It felt surreal. Not everyone had the opportunity to eat Tony Stark’s subpar cooking.

In the dream, none of that mattered.

“––well, when the guy tried to stab me,” Peter began on a tangent, “I was kinda expecting it, so I dodged and said something like ‘ _whoa buddy, that’s not nice. You gotta work on your aim.’_ And then _wham!_ He stabbed me. And then you showed up, punched the guy, and yelled at me for… ”

From his spot behind the stove, Tony had stopped stirring the pot of pasta to glance at his phone. He looked troubled. It was the same expression from the workshop.

Peter totally forgot what he had been talking about. “You okay, Mister Stark?”

He shook his head, still a bit mentally distanced from having read something odd. “Yeah. Fine. I keep getting these weird messages.”

“From Happy?”

Tony shook his head again. “No. I think someone’s just trying to scare me.”

“It doesn’t bother you that you’re getting them?” Peter asked, to which Tony simply shrugged. “Are they death threats? Are you receiving death threats?”

Tony chuckled. “No, no, _God_ ––I’ve received a shit ton of death threats in my life, but this–– _no._ They’re just weird. I’m not bothered. Look who you’re talking to. I’m Iron Man. They don’t scare me.”

Again, Peter accepted the answer, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it just wasn’t _right_. He didn’t like that Tony found humor in something that would terrify Peter. He didn’t like that he was stuck in a dream where he could do nothing about it.

After that, when things became hazy and Peter wasn’t sure where he was next, the pieces of the puzzle slowly came into place. The news broke that Tony had gone missing. Televisions in windows and big, gaudy screens in Times Square dedicated their minutes to the billionaire’s disappearance. Peter couldn’t go home and he couldn’t go to school. He couldn’t walk down the street without seeing the reports plastering his mentor’s face everywhere. And worst of all, Peter saw this coming, but it was a dream. He had to let it all unfold. He was stuck.

He didn’t know how or why, but the next thing he knew, he was staring at a reel of security footage dated from hours before. Tony was there, locked in some dark room with blood dripping from his forehead while three other men surrounded him. All Peter could do was watch from the monitors in the workshop as they tortured and beat Tony senseless. And Peter couldn’t react. He couldn’t hear anything, but he knew that the men––the evil, diabolic men––were using Tony’s relationship with Peter to their advantage. He just knew.

Tony didn’t have a lot of weak spots, but his Achilles’ heel was his friends and family.

When Peter finally made it to Tony, the dream felt more real than it had before. The hallway was empty and eerily silent, and Peter could paint every detail with his eyes closed. He wasn’t sure how he got there. The room that Tony was in was cold. It was lifeless. Dried blood was splattered across the floor, and as hard as Peter searched, he couldn’t hear a heartbeat. No breaths, not even a blink of an eye.

For those few moments, he believed that they had taken Tony elsewhere. But then Peter turned a corner, and the wreckage of an Iron Man suit stared back at him.

Peter felt to his knees, anger seeping down to his fists while his chest filled with a heavy sadness. He couldn’t tell if he was crying. The image of Tony, beaten skull and blood-soaked skin, was enough to make Peter heave. The men had been merciless. Tony was dead. Murdered. Gone.

And while Peter’s stomach sank further and further, heart lurching with each breath, he crawled over and tossed himself around Tony’s waist. It seemed as though the limp body held him back.

The dream became hazy again, solid shapes fading into nothing while Peter’s terror only grew. He swore, as the colors turned to gray, that a voice cut through the waning REM and said to Peter, _“I’m sorry for giving up on you.”_

* * *

Someone was nudging Peter’s shoulder.

His body jolted awake, and he gathered himself quickly, eyes adjusting to the low light in the workshop. The sun had set a long time ago, but he hadn’t been awake to see it. His heart hurt in his chest, and the more conscious he became, the more he felt the erratic beating against his rib cage. To his right, Tony stood, gaze confused and lingering while he pressed his hand on Peter’s shoulder blade.

“You okay?” he asked, slowly retracting his hand. “You’ve been mumbling in your sleep for about an hour, kiddo. You’re as white as a sheet. Maybe you weren’t kidding when you said you have bad dreams, yeah?”

Peter stared straight ahead. He felt numb and in shock, not to mention slightly dehydrated as he evened out his breathing. He remembered everything. The entire dream. _God_ , it felt so real. And he felt warm. Like a fever had struck him without warning. He blinked over at his mentor. “Tony?”

“Tony?” The man raised an eyebrow. “Since when was that a thing? What happened to ‘Mister Stark’?”

Peter blinked again. “S-sorry,” he whispered, shifting in his chair while he pushed back the vertigo that crept up.

Tony walked over toward his desk, but he didn’t hesitate to occasionally look back over at Peter in concern. The confusion never quite left. “Jesus, Pete. Did you physically go somewhere else for three hours? You’re lookin’ at me all weird. Relax your eyes. You’re freaking me out.”

“Oh, sorry.” Peter did his best to loosen whatever muscles were tense. But that was the problem––his entire body was tense. It felt like that one time he volunteered to receive acupuncture when a lady came into his health class freshman year. It didn’t hurt, but he was an idiot to think his fear of needles would be cured over a few pricks in his forehead and thumbs.

He didn’t want to tell Tony about his bad dream. Peter hardly wanted to call it a nightmare. He just couldn’t shake the images out of his head. Tony laying there, _a corpse_ , with broken parts and ghostly apologies. It didn’t make sense––Tony was Iron Man. Iron Man could fight. He never lost. He never died.

_But why did Peter sit back and let him_ **_die?_ **

****He had known it the entire dream: something was wrong. And he didn’t do anything. He saw his mentor beaten and bruised and bleeding until there was nothing left to give. Peter could almost feel his body still curled up against Tony’s side, desperate to hear a heartbeat muffled by the thick metal suit. Nothing. There was nothing. And it was because Peter had been too late.

His hand shook as he raised it to wipe a tear. He tried to keep the action subtle, but he couldn’t hold back the sniff and the small whimper that refused to be contained. The weight of the dream finally set in. Peter had broken his own heart.

“Whoa, kiddo,” Tony mumbled. He dropped what he had in his hands and made his way over, quickly plopping himself down in a stool so he could wrap an arm around Peter’s shoulders.

Peter let himself break. He fell against Tony, sobs wracking through him all wet and strained while a burning ache grew in his chest. “I-I let you die,” he cried out. “I let you _die_. I’m––I’m sorry, M-Mister Stark.”

“Pete,” whispered Tony, voice low and comforting. He kissed the top of Peter’s head. “What’re you talking about? I’m right here. I’m alive. Okay? It’s okay.”

Peter shook his head against Tony’s chest. “N-no,” he said. His tears were hot on his cheeks. “Dream. In my dream.” He could hardly breathe between words. “Y-you were gone. They––these people––they took you and––”

“But they didn’t, Peter, I’m right here.”

“ _I just let them kill you!”_ Peter shouted, pulling away from Tony just to collapse against the desk. He wrapped his arms around his head and breathed in deep.

The workshop was quiet for a moment. Distant technology whirred and buzzed, but the unsettling atmosphere was louder. Peter had never yelled like that, not in front of Tony. After a few seconds, Tony placed a hand back on Peter’s shoulder.

“I can’t erase your bad dreams, kiddo,” the man said. “I would if I could. Hell, I could figure out a way if you wanted me to. But for now, the dream is in the past. It was scary––it made you upset. And I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that. Dreams tend to find the worst things to dwell on. Believe me, I know. Good thing is, Pete, I’m still here. I’m right here. Not dead. See?”

Peter peered over at Tony from over his arm.

“You’re gonna forget about it in a few hours anyway,” said Tony. “Dreams are like my entire life pre-2005. They’re there but then _poof_ ––gone from memory like that. Tell you what, though, we’ll get some ice cream and Twizzlers and eat until Happy comes to find us drowning in food comas. How’s that sound?”

Peter cracked a smile. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Okay, good.” Tony grinned, standing up. “No dreams about death from here on out. All right? You got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

Tony was wrong.

Peter couldn’t say that to his face, of course, but it didn’t make it any less true. Tony was wrong. Peter remembered every vivid detail of the dream, all the way down from the clothes the man was wearing and up to the words he said. Even Peter’s worst nightmares never stuck like that. He couldn’t unsee any of it. Tony lying there. Tony, dead.

_Tony not even giving a shit that people wanted to kill him._

The thing that upset Peter the most was just _that_. The dream wasn’t some fantasy where he rode dragons and summoned an army of spiders. The dream was something that, if he were honest, had the possibility of happening. He knew that Tony would ignore messages like that. Peter knew that Tony would scoff and shove them off because he was _Iron Man_. And Iron Man never lost.

Every time Peter tried to talk about his dream, the older man was always half-preoccupied with another obscure project. He cut in between with hums and “yeah”’s, absent-minded responses while Peter was haunted by the dream.

After a week, Peter realized that Tony’s lack of attention most likely meant a lack of interest. The kid kept his mouth shut from then on out.

But for some reason, that wasn’t what Tony wanted either.

 _“Incoming call from Tony Stark_ , _”_ Karen said one evening.

Peter was out in the suit, but there wasn’t much activity for the night. For over an hour, he had been up on a roof and using his webbing as a jump rope up when Karen cut in.

“What?” Peter asked breathlessly. “Why’s he––?”

Tony’s face popped up in the heads-up display, a small smile decorating his features while a knot formed in Peter’s stomach. He still saw the Tony from his dream, even nearly a week later. Dreams never stayed around that long. They never stuck like that.

“Word to the wise, kiddo, don’t leave your homework sittin’ around if you don’t want me to correct it,” the man said, holding up a handful of papers. “What’s with all the stuff you left behind, huh? Since when did you journal?”

“I just––I dunno,” Peter said and shrugged. “I’ve got feelings and… yeah. It’s just easier to write it all down instead of––wait, Mister Stark, did you––you didn’t read my journal, did you?”

Tony appeared briefly offended. “What? No. That’s a serious invasion of privacy. I’d never do that. Besides, if you wrote anything about that dream you’ve been chatterin’ on about for the past week––”

“You were listening?” Peter sat down on the ledge of the roof and looked over at the street below.

“Pete, you didn’t give me the chance to _not_ listen,” Tony said. “Granted, I usually don’t listen, so, you’ve got a point.”

“It just didn’t seem like you wanted t’hear about it,” Peter mumbled, shrugging once again, “that’s all. I just—I can’t stop thinking about it. The dream. It scared me.”

Tony frowned. His eyebrows furrowed and wrinkles deepened on his forehead, meanwhile, Peter was dreading the fact that, now, Tony _was_ listening.

Peter sighed. “I just can’t stop seeing you a-and––”

“Pete,” Tony said. “I know. I’m sorry. I can’t get it out of your head. I wish I could.” He was quiet for a moment, and Peter could see the thoughts running through his head. “Why don’t you go home and tell May you’ll be spending the night up here? ‘Kay? I’ll get in a car. Me instead of Happy this time. I hear he’s been babbling on about his old boxing days again; you wouldn’t last a minute. Swing on home and get some stuff together.”

“Yeah, okay,” Peter mumbled, sniffing as he blinked away a few tears. “Sure. Thanks, Mister Stark.”

“Of course, kiddo,” Tony replied. “And, don’t worry about me, all right? I’m alive. I’m breathing––to many, _many_ people’s dismay.”

Peter chuckled. “Okay.”

Tony smiled, too. “See you in an hour. Stark out.”

Once the phone call was over, Peter shook his head and tried to wipe the grin off his face. Tony was right. He was there. He was alive. All the dream had been was just a dream.

* * *

_A month later._

* * *

“That’s–– _huh_. Well, you don’t see that every day.”

Peter sat up and took out an earbud. “See what?” he asked. Music continued to play lowly into one ear.

Tony stood at his desk, rubbing his chin while he stared at his array of computer screens and holograms. Peter could only see a reversed image of a few things, but he had never been good at reading things backward. It wasn’t a trait he picked up in elementary school when the rest of his classmates did.

“Uh, nothing,” Tony muttered, waving his hands to make whatever it was disappear. “No big deal. Just observing. Doesn’t matter. What’re you working on?”

“Just some homew—”

“Can I help?” he asked fervently as he made his way over.

Peter took out the other earbud. “Sure. It’s on oscillations and gravitation. Physics stuff.”

Tony sat down and slid the paper in front of him. He looked over the homework, eyes rapidly reading over every word, equation, graph, etc., before he reached over for the pencil in Peter’s grip. “Easy. Just use the values as Jacobi elliptic integrals.”

Peter watched, eyebrows raised, as Tony scribbled messily on the sheet. “I’m not sure that’s––”

“Shh, working,” the man said and held up a finger. As he did so, however, the gesture trembled. He kept his jaw clenched while he wrote a variety of illegible functions.

So, Peter kept watching. He didn’t care about homework though. He watched Tony’s actions, thoroughly observing every nervous tick or coping habit. Every nail bite, deep breath, forehead rub, and so on.

“You okay, Mister Stark?” Peter asked after a moment.

Tony blinked, barely glancing over as if he hadn’t heard a word. “Hm. Yeah––what?”

Peter almost laughed, but something felt off. Tony was off. “Are you okay? You seem… I don’t know. Weird.”

“Yeah,” Tony said. He set down the pencil. “Oh, yeah. Totally. I’m great. You okay?”

“Yeah…” Peter cracked a small smile. “I’m good. What you were talking about earlier––you sure it was just nothin’? You look all pale. And sweaty.”

“Sweaty?” Tony laughed, but even that sounded nervous. “I’m fine, Pete. Don’t worry about me. Worry about how physics is a joke and how no high school student should ever have to endure his crap. Jesus Christ.” He looked back over the sheet, flipped it over, and rolled his eyes. “Your little brain must hurt having to look at that. How the hell do you do this and be Spider-Man? I couldn’t even run a company and––”

“Mister Stark.”

“Yeah?”

Peter didn’t want to forget about what was bothering his mentor, but there wasn’t a conversation at hand. Tony wasn’t going to crack; he was going to keep avoiding it until he grew frustrated at Peter. And then, there would be uncomfortable silence for an hour or two before Tony decided to apologize and finally assure Peter that he was, in fact, okay. But Peter knew better. He knew there was something, but he needed to face the facts. He wouldn’t get the truth.

“Nothing,” he muttered. “Thanks for––uh, doing my homework.”

Tony smiled and slapped a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Anytime. Don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Yeah, well, next time I’ll be sure to,” Peter said with a laugh. He picked up his pencil and looked over the homework as Tony walked away. Nothing was legible. Nothing was right. But, with Tony, something was clearly wrong.

Peter kept noticing the shift in behavior over the course of the next week. Little changes like occasional tics and habits––all summoned by a quick glance at a phone or a watch. Peter wondered if it had something to do with Pepper or Rhodey, or maybe the company’s stock had taken a tumble and Tony was nervous he’d go bankrupt. He was high strung at all hours, and it seemed to be triggered by something he read or received.

The nervous mannerisms made Peter nervous. His senses nagged at him, prickling at the back of his neck whenever Tony acted weird. It was getting worse and worse, and Peter couldn’t handle it anymore.

He had Happy drive him up to the compound after school without telling Tony. The weather was getting warmer and spring had started to show itself, but Peter couldn’t enjoy it if there was something wrong with someone he cared about. Tony was Tony. Tony was Iron Man. He hid his emotions fairly well, yet he wasn’t doing a great job around Peter.

The sun was setting outside as Peter walked through the compound. It was empty and cold, but most of the life was tucked away in Tony’s workshop. Yet, as Peter strolled, an unsettling feeling crept up, one that felt vaguely familiar.

“FRIDAY?” Peter asked into the air.

“ _Hello, Peter.”_

“Hey––uh, is Tony–– _Mister Stark_ ––is he here?”

 _“He isn’t_ ,” replied the AI. _“Would you like me to alert the Boss that you’ve arrived?”_

“Sure,” Peter said, rubbing at his sleeve as he stepped down the corridor to the workshop. “Where is he?”

_“I haven’t received any activity regarding his location.”_

“Oh, okay.”

 _“The last check-in was four hours ago in Queens,”_ she said.

Peter furrowed his brows and he opened the door to the workshop. The room lit up around him. “He’s in Queens? Where?”

_“JFK International Airport.”_

“Fri, you could’ve just told me he was on a plane,” said Peter, stepping around a few strewn tools before sitting at his usual workbench. It felt weird to be there alone––it felt like he wasn’t supposed to be there at all.

_“Boss doesn’t have any upcoming scheduled flights.”_

“Huh, okay. Weird.” Peter slumped down against the table, arms surrounding his head while he rested his chin on them. He faced Tony’s desk, blinking up at Post-It Note doodles taped up to the backs of monitors. Most of them were done by Peter when he was bored, but DUM-E and U had contributed to a few.

“Hey, Fri?” Peter mumbled, bring his hand up to his cheek. “Does Mister Stark ever design things for me and not tell me about them?”

 _“It’s possible,”_ the AI said. _“He has a few files that have not been opened in a while. Would you like to view them?”_

Peter instantly sat up. His hands slammed against the table, and the sound echoed throughout the workshop. “I can do that? They’re not––he doesn’t have them locked up or encrypted, or anything?”

_“Of all people to keep secrets from, Peter, Boss wouldn’t keep them from you.”_

Peter smiled. He rapped his knuckles against the table before letting the stool slide out from under him. Excitement filled his chest as he rushed over to Tony’s desk, fingers quick to access the server and tap into whatever files the man had on Peter.

And for hours, he sat there scrolling through design after design, idea after idea until FRIDAY announced that Peter had eaten out all of the popcorn left in the compound. He couldn’t believe that Tony had done all of this for him––he couldn’t believe that he was even sitting there at Tony’s desk and eating up all of his food. It all felt surreal.

“Hey––uh, Fri?” Peter asked, sipping at some soda he found in the kitchen. “What’s this?”

Peter’s finger was pointed at an odd amalgamation of numbers and letters slotting through the screen.

 _“The system is rebooting,”_ she said.

“Oh.” He nodded and sat back against the chair. “Why?”

 _“I’m not sure,”_ the AI replied. _“It’s possible its last reboot triggered an automatic update.”_

He leaned forward, watching the numbers slowly fade away until the monitor turned back. And then it came back to life. On the middle screen, a small message sat lonely in the center. Peter squinted so he could read it.

_Subject Acquired. Mission Accomplished. Good luck._

“F-FRIDAY?” stuttered Peter. The message disappeared. The monitor returned back to the way it had been before. “What was that?” Peter’s voice cracked as he spoke.

 _“I don’t know, Peter,”_ she said, and even she sounded scared. _“I can’t track its origin.”_

“Where’s Tony?” he asked. “Fri, where is he?”

_“His last location is still JFK International Airport.”_

Peter stood, hands shaking as flashes of his old dream filled his head. His skin pricked, and optimistically, he believed he knew exactly where to go. But he was just hopeful. Hopeful that Tony hadn’t moved since he was last tracked. Hopeful to find him in one piece. Hopeful to find him alive.

Peter clicked his web-shooters into place and sighed. “Well, then, got any suits for me ‘round here, Fri?”

* * *

Tony was going to kill him. If he wasn’t already dead, he was going to kill Peter.

Peter wasn’t sure how to get to JFK any other way than using one of the Iron Man suits. He needed something quick, something that would get him there in a matter of minutes. As air traffic control cut into the suit’s communications, Peter searched for anything that would prove out of the ordinary. He landed on a bit of unused tarmac and winced as planes roared by in the distance.

“Search the hangars, Fri, search anywhere,” Peter gasped out, tired from pushing down the panic threatening to rise in his chest. Plus, he had on his suit underneath Tony’s; it was getting hot in there. “How am I––how am I supposed to find him with an airport full of people?”

“ _There is a supposedly unoccupied hangar across from terminal seven,”_ the AI said. _“You are within a distance for me to pick up on an odd heat signature emitting from the building. I would say that is your best bet.”_

Peter nodded, breathing hard while the repulsors ignited beneath his hands and feet. He soared into the air as FRIDAY directed him to the hangar, and finally, he could see what she was talking about. Through the suit’s thermal imaging, he could see that the building was empty except for an odd––almost blob-like––anomaly in a corner. Peter dove down and landed onto the adjacent road as quietly as possible.

“Please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead,” he whispered to himself. “Dammit, Tony, I have school tomorrow. Please don’t be dead.”

Peter tried to hide it from FRIDAY, but truly, he was terrified. His stupid dream was coming true. And he hadn’t recognized the signs. Tony’s behavior, the messages, and now, he was missing. This wasn’t fair. He couldn’t be dead.

“Is he in a suit, Fri?” Peter asked lowly.

 _“If he is, all functions have been powered down or removed,”_ she said. _“I’m not receiving anything.”_

Peter nearly broke, expression crumbling for a moment as he snuck in through a door. “Please don’t be fucking dead,” he muttered and stepped into the hangar.

It was large, empty, and cold. It reminded him of the compound.

Peter stepped out of the Iron Man suit. As comforting as it was to have FRIDAY with him, the suit’s technology was hindering his ability to hear for a heartbeat. He stood, unmoving and quiet as he listened for a sound. Any sound. A single breath would suffice.

And somewhere, faint as could be, was a slow heartbeat.

“Mister Stark?” Peter found himself shouting into the dark, and he didn’t care if he was yelling it to no one or someone unfamiliar. He didn’t care if the entire airport knew he was there.

He heard a small gasp along with winces of pain. Peter was quick on his feet, dodging boxes and other obstacles. The hangar had been abandoned and used for storage––a great place to hide a famous superhero that no one would know how to find.

“I’m––I’m coming! _Shit.”_ Peter stubbed his toe.

The heartbeat was drowned out by his pants and the rush of wind as he ran. _God_ , why were hangars so big?

_Oh, right. Airplanes. Duh._

Peter wanted to believe he was dreaming, but instead, he kept running and following his instincts.

“Mister Stark?” he called out again as he slowed. He glanced around, looking beyond the boxes and the mounds of crap the airport had stored in there. There was even a giant dumpster full of odd things like busted microwaves and broken chairs.

“Yeah, Pete, I’m here,” the man breathed out from behind.

Peter turned and rushed over to where Tony was propped against a stack of wooden pallets. His helmet had been removed, and portions of the suit had been damaged. There were large gashes on any inch of exposed skin, including a rigid cut along the man’s cheek. But he was alive. He was bleeding and bruised, but he was alive.

“Nanotech’s gonna need a bit more work,” he said, grunting while he lifted himself higher into a sitting position. “Jesus. _Fuck_.”

Peter crouched beside Tony, eyes examining over every wound and bloodstain on his mentor’s skin. He set a hand on his back and another on his arm, and Tony looked up at him with a smile.

“It was an ambush,” Tony mumbled through a busted lip. “Fucking embarrassing.”

Peter shook his head.

“Some guys who’d gotten their hands on old Chitauri stuff from 2012.” Tony shifted his shoulder and groaned. “ _Shit_. That stings. They––they reminded me of the dude you fought. The one with the wings. That Vulture guy.”

Peter bit his lip to keep from tearing up. _Tony was alive._ The dream hadn’t come true after all.

“They got away,” Tony whispered, turning his head so Peter couldn’t see the emotion in his features. “I-I let them get away.”

“We’ll get them,” Peter said, “one day. We’ll get them. Together. Okay? You’re just covered in blood. So, we should probably get you help or somethin’.”

Tony nodded, chuckling. “Yeah. Help. I’d like that. Know how to cauterize?”

Peter’s eyes widened. “Uh, Karen?” he said to his AI, voice cracking. “Let’s get some medics down here. Now.”

Tony continued to laugh. “Relax. I did some myself.” After a moment, his laughter settled, and he set a hand over Peter’s. “You did good, kid. Thank you. I’m sorry.”

“Why’re you sorry, Mister Stark? You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“Nah, I’ve got lots to be sorry for,” said Tony. “You’re just being modest. Sorry for letting this happen. Sorry for not letting you in on what was happening. They warned me, and I didn’t listen.”

“You’re good at that,” Peter muttered and smiled. “The not-listening thing.”

“I told you, I totally listen to everything you say.”

“ _Yeah, yeah_.”

“Start having good dreams from now on,” said Tony. “Dreams where I retire and you go to college, and we all live happily ever after. That’s your job. Stop dreaming about me dying. Now I know this shit can come true.”

Peter laughed. “I’ll try.”

“Good kid.” Tony patted Peter’s cheek. “How’d you know to come here? How’d you even _get_ here?”

“FRIDAY had a location, so I just followed instincts and stuff after that,” Peter answered. “Plus, I totally didn’t take one of your suits. Not at all.”

“You totally didn’t _what?”_

“Uh. Nothing. I told you. You _totally_ won’t find that I took one of your suits.”

“You’re dead, Parker.”


End file.
